I Feel Like a Sofa
by Tea and Fairy Lights
Summary: Sherlock and John watch Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy on Towel Day.


**A/N: Yarsian, what the hell have we done?**

**No sofas were harmed during the writing of this fanfic.**

* * *

John. –SH

Sherlock. –JW

Bored. –SH

Surprising. Not. If you want me to come downstairs you could just ask nicely. –JW

Please. –SH

John walks downstairs into the sitting room of their flat. "Evening."

Sherlock stares at the ceiling on the sofa. "Evening."

John walks over to the sofa. "Do you even try to entertain yourself or do you 'text John first, ask questions later'?" He asks with a gentle smile.

"The skull is less entertaining than you."

"Yes, well his sense of humour is a bit dated."

Sherlock's lips twitch into a small smile. He stretches his legs up toward the ceiling and tries to touch his toes.

"Is this how you exercise when you don't go chasing after London's most wanted?"

"I don't see you doing much of it yourself," Sherlock huffs.

John smiles. "I don't exercise except when I'm with you."

Sherlock gives up trying to stretch. He flops back on the sofa. "What do I do, John?"

John raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"BORED. What do I _do_?"

John sighs. "I was trying to help that with my charming wit and catering to your ego."

"Flattering, but not enough." Sherlock rolls onto his side.

"I was thinking about going to a pub, though you aren't the type and you're not really dressed for it."

"Pubs, boring. You're not dressed appropriately either."

John rolls his eyes and looks down at his clothing; he too, is in his pyjamas. "We could get drunk and watch the Peter Sellers Version of Casino Royale. That's a laugh."

Sherlock shrugs. "Might as well."

"I'll get the beer. I think we can find the DVD somewhere in this clutter."

"I want hard liquor and a drinking game."

John sighs and starts rooting through a different cabinet. "Picky, picky."

"You told me to be more innovative, lately."

"Words I knew I'd regret the moment they left my mouth." He grins and carries over a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses.

Sherlock holds up the DVD case with one hand.

"Right. Well, this movie, it's peculiar, and to be honest the only reason I own it was someone gave it to me as a joke. If you have another drinking game you'd like to play speak up now."

Sherlock glances at the description on the back of the DVD case. "I'd prefer another movie. This looks ridiculous." Sherlock tosses it aside.

"I can't disagree. Why don't you pick a film then?"

"What else do we own that isn't terrible?"

"We own lots of films that aren't; pick one."

"But that means I have to stand."

John grumbles. "How about Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy?" he offers. "I like that one."

Sherlock glances at the DVD shelf. "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy."

John nods. "Alright. Today is Towel Day after all."

"Boffin."

John puts the DVD in and switches over the telly. "We should try to mix up real Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters."

Sherlock leans back on the sofa. "How many times have you seen this film and read the books?"

"Read all the books once. Reread the ones I liked a few times." John thinks. "Have only watched this film about eight times all the way through if I had to guess."

Sherlock scoffs.

"What about you?"

"Read them as a child, was forced to watch the movie three times."

"Forced?" John asks as he finally sits on the sofa. "Don't like this adaptation?"

"Forced by company."

The DVD starts. Arthur Dent appears on the screen. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Since when did you get a job acting?"

John glares at his flatmate. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Sherlock points to the screen. "He looks just like you."

John huffs. "Why does everyone always say that? We look nothing alike."

Sherlock crosses his arms and leans back, raising an eyebrow.

"Seriously, we don't look alike any more than you look like that bloke who played Stephen Hawking in that film I tried to make you watch to learn about the solar system."

"I do not."

"You look exactly like Benedict Cumberbatch."

"And I'm _certain_ that Arthur Dent yells at his phone when Ford Prefect texts him at Tesco," Sherlock retorts.

"You know, most people would consider it an honour to be compared to the great Stephen Hawking."

"He's hideous and pompous, and I do not have ALS."

"No, you're not pompous _at all_." John grumbles as he pours two shots. "And I'm for once grateful you're healthy." He downs his shot.

Sherlock picks up his shot and sniffs it before downing it. He closes his eyes tightly as he swallows.

John refills the glasses. "Never saw you as a fan of Hitchhiker's Guide to be honest. Far too—" he holds up his hands and motions air quotes, "_spacey_ for you."

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it." He sinks back into the sofa.

"We don't really have a game going here." John says, emptying his shot glass again.

"Every time Arthur Dent looks strikingly like you, take a shot."

John rolls his eyes. "He does not look like me! Professor Stephen Hawking."

Sherlock nudges John with his foot. "Dent. You're just as dodgy with your dates, too. You should be wearing this," He points at his dressing gown.

"You just _love_ being half naked in public don't you?" John asks downing another shot. "Trying to give me what little clothing you have."

"At least I have the confidence to flaunt it." Sherlock takes another shot.

"You're thin, pale and looked like you were carved by some Italian master. I on the other hand have hideous scars, am a little thicker around the edges, and am a bit older." He downs another shot. "I don't have anything to flaunt."

"That's not true."Sherlock takes another shot. The room becomes a little fuzzy, and Ford and Arthur turn into sofas on the screen. He turns toward John, and realises that he's taken the form of a sofa, too.

John moves to the floor, between Sherlock's legs. "No, I don't have anything to flaunt. Name one feature I have to flaunt."

"You're made of leather..."

John raises his eyebrow. "Sherlock, what are you on about?"

Sherlock runs his hands along the seat of the sofa, and eventually into John's hair.

"That's better." He looks up at Sherlock. "Do I need to cut you off?"

Sherlock bends down and nuzzles John's head. "Cut what?"

"Cut off your access to alcohol?" John clarifies. "Don't worry, I wouldn't actually cut you. Unless you're into that sort of thing."

"Sofa."

"What about the sofa, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rubs his hands along John's shoulders, massaging firmly.

John tilts his head back and moans. "That's nice."

Sherlock kisses along John's neck, twisting himself around until he's rubbing himself against the sofa.

John stares at Sherlock. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock starts to thrust against the sofa as he kisses John's neck.

"Sherlock, I'm over here."

Sherlock's lips latch onto the leather sofa.

"No Sherlock, over here." He pulls Sherlock's head back over to him.

Sherlock is completely disoriented. He sees two sofas in front of him. Which one is John?

John kisses Sherlock's face. "You are never having vodka again."

Sherlock kisses back, but his fingers glide over the leather. He continues to thrust against the cushions.

"Fuck it." John moans against Sherlock's lips. His hand snakes into his pajama bottoms and he begins wanking himself in time with Sherlock's thrusts.

Sherlock pulls himself out of his trousers and thrusts in between the cushions as his lips suck at John's face.

John had never wished he were a sofa in his life before this moment. Sherlock had changed his views on many things. John bucks up into his hand harder.

Sherlock never realised how much he enjoyed this sofa. Or was it John? He couldn't tell anymore.

John contemplates sneaking back onto the sofa. Could he fit under Sherlock or would that throw everything off?

Sherlock sheds his dressing gown and top as he thrusts harder.

John pulls himself in time with Sherlock's fucking of the couch. "Fuck Sherlock," He pants against Sherlock's lips. "Close."

Sherlock comes in between the seats with his lips pressed against John's.

John comes in his own trousers.

Sherlock starts to lick the seat cushions.

John pants and regains some semblance of awareness shortly after. "I am never going to be able to look at that sofa the same again."

"Sofa..."

John stands. His legs shaking slightly, both from his climax and however many shots he had downed.

"No, Sherlock. Bed time." He tried to pull Sherlock up.

Sherlock flops into John's arms, still hanging out of his trousers, unaware due to all the alcohol in his system. He probably wouldn't care if he were sober.

John tugs Sherlock's trousers up slightly, not embarrassed by any means. He just didn't want to have to explain them in the morning if Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade strolled in early. "Come on. Let's put you in your bed." He began walking toward Sherlock's room.

Sherlock pulls John into bed with him as John tries to tuck him in.

"Sherlock," John chides. "I'd have stayed if you simply asked." John says, slipping under the covers. "Planned on staying if that's not too presumptuous."

Sherlock's too drunk to care or mind. He curls around his sofa doctor.

John sighs and settles into Sherlock's bed. "Goodnight, Sherlock."


End file.
